Pick-Up Lines
by DutchessBoo
Summary: Five plus one fic: Five cheesy pick-up lines Murdock used on B.A., and the one that actually worked.
1. The Good Ol' Standard

******Disclaimer**: The A-Team property of Universal Studios. I'm just playing in the sandbox.

**Warnings**: Language

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**1.**

The first time HM Murdock meets B.A. Baracus, B.A.'s in a bad mood and Murdock's in a curious one. The pilot's wearing flannel and the sergeant's wearing a white t-shirt that reads "COMME des FUCKDOWN". Murdock has absolutely no idea what it's supposed to mean.

"Did it hurt?" he asks, in that honey-sweet southern drawl he has, eyes wide and dark and innocent. B.A. looks down at him and sneers, and there are shades in his eyes. Like tinted windows.

"Did what hurt, man?" he asks, and it's not aggressive, not yet. For everything, however, there is a time and a season, and Murdock never liked to wait much.

He continues with a bit of a grin. "When you fell from heaven."

And there it is, that first flame. It starts, like most things, as something else entirely, and Murdock sees pleased affection spark behind that dusky glass. It's too brief though, and it blossoms into a steely sort of annoyance before his very eyes.

"Yeah, it did," B.A. snarls, and he takes a predatory step forward, "_asshole_."

Murdock allows himself the barest of moments to admire the bright white stripes of B.A.'s sneakers before having the dignity to look confused. B.A. is already growling, pivoting on the scuffed heels of his shoes to walk away, and as Murdock is faced with the quilted yellow of his jacket, he allows himself a wide smile.


	2. The Frank Sinatra

**Disclaimer**: Chapter two and I still don't own anything. Alas, poor [me].

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**2.**

They're backup, because B.A.'s in an even worse mood than usual and Murdock can't focus to save his life. Hannibal and Face are inside the warehouse, suited up in Dunhill and Dior, respectively; but Hannibal's got a cigar in his inner pocket and Face's watch is a fake. Murdock soothes his nerves by humming Prokofiev and making shadow puppets on the van door. He can see the bulge of B.A.'s masseter throbbing in his jaw, his eyebrows darker and more dire than usual.

"Stop it, man," he snaps, finally, his eyes so narrowed the lashes nearly intertwine, "Don't you know any good songs?"

Murdock mewls at him, the look on his face a cocktail of disgruntled, begrudging, and highly offended. "Prokofiev, I'll have you know, was one of the most influential composers of the twentieth century," he informs, British accent posh and clipped, reminiscent of Queen Elizabeth II and funny-tasting tea.

B.A. snarls, his thumb tapping out an arhythmic pattern against the steering wheel. "Then how come I've never heard of him?" he mutters.

Murdock sits on his hands before he answered, more than tempted to cover B.A.'s restless thumb with his warm, dry palm. Instead, he cocks his head to the side, grinning wide and toothy. "Oh, come on, B.A.! Piano concerto No. 3? Peter and the Wolf? The Cinderella Suite?"

"I don't listen to old people music, Murdock," he snapps. His masseter again gives him away, nudging his cheeks into the lush beginnings of a smile. Murdock's hands twitch under his thighs, and he crosses his legs at the ankles, because B.A. was nothing if not bitable.

"But _Bosco_," he protests, pale brows arching upwards, eyes wide, "your momma told me that you took piano lessons in sixth grade and everybody knows—"

B.A. grimaces at the mention of his mother, annoyance painting his features pensive and pearled. "That was one year, Murdock, I didn't learn nothing."

"Well, sweetheart," Murdock croons swiftly, all New York and 1940's fedora, "you can tickle my ivories any time."

His hand spreads across B.A.'s knee, his nose nearly brushing the swell of the sergeant's cheekbones. It's bold, and brazen, and he can feel the muscles in B.A.'s thigh writhe and tense. But Hannibal and Face are darting out of the warehouse—Face more than a little exasperated, Hannibal exultant—and B.A.'s buzzing with enough adrenalin to forget about Murdock, hands included.

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_**Nota Bene:** These little snippets are based in the movie!verse, but a lot of my inspiration comes from the 1980' TV show. If you haven't seen it, give it a try, it's actually quite endearing. I'll try and put the episode that inspired each chapter in the notes, for anyone who's curious. _


	3. The Puzzler

**Disclaimer**: Chapter three, still broke and definitely not the owner of any of this. Welp.

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**3.**

It's thirty-five degrees. Inside. Outside, it's twenty-two. Face has barricaded himself in the closet, taking the espresso machine and three of the blankets with him. Hannibal is out on the balcony, for God's sake, taking one of his infamous Cuban cigars and letting the jazz run through his veins like fire.

B.A. is suffering from the mother of all headaches and joints that ache like they belong to someone three times his age. He made it through the day on a bottle of Advil and endless glasses of oatmeal water, but the drugs wore off half an hour ago. He sits in the middle of his bed, shaking, teeth grinding together like he was chewing a bit.

Murdock, unfazed by the cold, droops halfway off his bed, mumbling sweet nothings at the carpet. B.A. had him worried there for a second, although no one would've known. His concern manifested itself in the infinite supply of oatmeal water, which he warmed in water bottles kept tight between his legs. B.A. didn't know. Nobody told him.

The sergeant drifts close to sleep, slumped on the mattress, his eyelids fluttering. The blues in his skin bled to the top layer of dermis and he pales in the harsh lighting of the hotel. If Murdock didn't know better, he'd say B.A. looks worn down, and the man's shoulders shudder jerkily as he coughs.

Murdock's up in a hot second, scrambling over the bed like a puppy in socks. He reaches B.A.'s side in seconds, ice-cold nose pressed to the hollows of his cheeks. "B.A.," he prompts, breathing hot on his neck, "B.A., are you pneumonia?"

The look B.A. gives him is remarkably acerbic for someone so under the weather, and his eyebrows threaten to meet at the center of his forehead. "Fool," he snarks, his voice low and raspy, "How the hell am I—"

Murdock puts one long, chilly finger against his lips. "Because you give me the shivers," he murmurs, and he brushes away a smudge of engine grease with a gentle thumb. B.A. can do nothing more than gaze at him with tired, glassy eyes as Murdock nudges him down on the mattress. Extra blankets are found in the closet—Face gives them up begrudgingly, and shoos Murdock out to keep in the minimal heat—and B.A. is soon swathed in pilled fleece and two-hundred-thread cotton.

"Merry Christmas Eve, B.A.," Murdock whispers, and B.A. grins at him. It's brief and weak, and the two of them don't speak of it, but Murdock feels sweet warmth blossom in his stomach.


	4. The Just This Side of Blasphemous

**Disclaimer**: Chapter 4 and I've still got nothing to my name, including this franchise. _Especially_ this franchise.

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**4.**

It's the first time B.A.'s seen Murdock in anything reminiscent of a suit. It's only a white t-shirt, a sports jacket and an awkward ascot, but it's a far cry from his scuffed jeans and fuzzy flannel shirt du jour. If B.A. had been anyone else, he might've complimented Murdock on his attire (_you dress up kinda nice, fool_), but B.A. has a reputation and it certainly isn't going to keep itself.

"Take that scarf off, man," he growls, nudging Murdock with a beefy arm, "it's disrespectful."

Murdock snorts, patting the elaborate knot of fabric around his neck and fixing B.A. with an electrifying example of evil eye. "Brother Ignatius," he drones, eyebrows raised so high his forehead looks like an accordion, "I have brought over fifty souls to the good Lord today; dare you begrudge me my ascot?"

B.A.'s own brows, in silent protests, sink down over his eyes and settle there, darkening the scowl etched his face. "My name's Bosco, Murdock," he corrects, folding his arms over the heavy gold cross on his chest. True to form, Murdock is unfazed by the peacocking and offers B.A. a polite yet haughty yawn.

"Really, my good man?" he inquires, his voice crisp and drawling, "You would have me believe that warm-hearted, organ-playing man of God I just witnessed was not the good Brother Ignatius Blacktop?"

B.A. wrinkles his nose. 'Brother Ignatius Blacktop' gets more absurd every time Murdock repeats it and he's already tired of playing church. "Murdock, man, can you just do something for me?"

It's Murdock who actually answers him—not ascot-wearing evangelist Harry Dean Hanover—and for that B.A. is quite briefly thankful. "Oh, Bosco, you know I can, could, should, would and will do anything and everything for you—I can even turn myself invisible, if that is what you so desire—"

He manages to get as many words out thanks to the sheer rapidity of his speech. B.A. is quick to interrupt, barreling in as loudly as possible. "Shuddup, fool! All I want is for you to take off that damn bandana!"

Murdock's deflation is barely noticeable, and momentary at that. He claps both hands over the knot of his scarf in feeble protection, and B.A. prepares himself for an unintelligible stream of high-pitch protests.

What he gets instead is a face-full of Murdock, bright-eyed and leering. "Oh, come now, Brother Ignatius" he drawls, his sonorous change of accent just as quick as his about-face, "at _least_ let me sell you an indulgence, because it is a sin to look as good as you do."

B.A. is ashamedly stunned for almost a full second. He makes up for his moment of weakness by hauling Murdock out of the church, ascot-first.

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_**NB:** Inspiration for this unholy mess is found in season 4, episode 5 "The Road to Hope". Also found in the episode: Murdock's hair, a ridiculous amount of hobos, and B.A.'s crazy organ-playing skills. I'm not lying, I promise. _


	5. The Horny Teenager

******Disclaimer**: Young, Broke, Definitely not the Owner of this Franchise: A Memoir

_My apologies for the lateness of this chapter, I've been a bit busy with midterms and such. Also, we've only got one more chapter left! To be quite honest, I'm going to miss this little fic. __  
_

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**5.**

It's hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, supposedly. Murdock has half a mind to try, but the look of regret that decorated Face's features right after he said the words dissuades the pilot for the time being.

Fried egg notwithstanding, it is definitely hot enough to go without some layers. Murdock is known to stay resolute in his shabby jackets, wearing his leathery letterman well into the high seventies, but if the shimmery wetness of the highway is anything to go by, it's at least ninety-five and that's where he draws the line.

Murdock declares it official t-shirt weather around one o'clock in the afternoon; stripping off his flannel shirt and shoving his baseball low on his forehead to keep the sun out of his eyes. Hannibal sends him to check on B.A. around two, because Hannibal likes drama just as much as the next guy and Face loves schmoozing more than anybody. He's the best at it too, which apparently gives him a perpetual excuse for anything one might ask him to do.

This makes Murdock the gopher slash odd-jobs man in just about every situation, but he really doesn't mind. He likes bothering B.A., as a matter of fact, and he hasn't seen him all afternoon. He's considering introducing the man to his newest persona (Captain Cab; also, Dr. Vern the Veterinarian), but the idea slips his mind as he walks into the garage.

The first thing Murdock notices is that B.A. doesn't believe in t-shirt weather. Or maybe his disbelief extends to shirt weather in general, since he's wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung jeans and some Air Jordan's. There's a red handkerchief hanging out of his back pocket, and Murdock can see the band of some bright purple Calvin Klein's peeking over the top of his pants.

The splash of color holds Murdock's attention but briefly. He's much more interested in the musculature of B.A.'s back as it contorts and writhes in the heat of the sun. The sergeant is bent over the inner workings of a taxi-cab, the hood thrown up like a sun-shade and Murdock can see, perfectly contoured, the trapezius, deltoids, lattisimus dorsi, and the thoraco-lumbar fascia undulating under smooth brown skin. He wonders if B.A. would let him outline each one in chalk and watch the lines ripple as he worked.

New personas forgotten, he decides to get a closer look. "Hey, B.A.," he yells, trotting over to where the sergeant has the hood thrown up, "B.A., is the battery dead?"

The sweat beading B.A.'s brow makes him look less intimidating and more uncomfortable. Murdock notices this partly because it's one of the things Murdock likes to notice, and also because he's trying admirably hard not look anywhere below B.A.'s collarbone.

"The battery ain't dead, fool," B.A. snorts, wiping at his forehead with a grubby red bandana, "it's a problem with the engine. I'm pretty sure it's a starter motor relay failure, but—"

Murdock interrupts him with a deceptively endearing grin, "Oh that's real interesting, B.A., but a little out of my league. Now, if you're battery's ever dead let me know."

B.A. considers this a moment, arm draped over the raised hood of the car like the metal wasn't solar-surface hot. If the look on his face is anything to go by, he's apprehensive, but Murdock keeps the innocence on his face just long enough for B.A. to get curious.

"Why would I ask you about a dead battery?" he says, each word slow, suspicious, and measured. Murdock, salacity seeping into his expression with each passing second, finally lets his eyes drop, taking in firm pectorals, taut obliques, and the flat line of B.A.'s abdominals with lazy delight.

"'Cause," he grins, leaning against the car's bumper with an audacity bordering on flirtatious, "I'd jump you anytime."

B.A. is surprisingly silent for a moment, head tilting to the side, eyes squinted almost shut. The shake of his head is near imperceptible, but the sigh he emits is more than distinct.

"Fool," he groans, "get outta here before I slam your arm in the radiator."

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_**NB:** This little tidbit might make a bit more sense if y'all watch season 2, episode 8 "The Taxicab Wars". It's one of my favorites, and I use the "this is my talking fist, knockout" line all the time. Disclaimer: I know there's been shirtless!BA in several episodes, but I can't remember if this is one of them. _


	6. The One from the Heart

******Disclaimer**: Even after all the months between updates, I _still_ cannot claim ownership of this franchise.

_Friends! It's been how many months since I've updated this fic? Wait-don't tell me, I don't want to know. My utmost apologies, lovely readers! Here I am, with virtual chocolates, apology champagne, and the last little snippet of this saga. Many, many thanks to those who've taken the time to join me on this journey. À la prochaine! _

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**+1**

Murdock is basking in the aftermath of a close escape—one of many and much closer cut than the last. It always seems as if he's soaring through life by the skin of his teeth, and latching on to Hannibal's wild-eyed team of marauders (_no less wild had they been, even in the army) _only exacerbated the alacrity and heat of this devil's tailwind Murdock continues to ride.

If this most recent getaway proves anything, it is that Murdock is beyond lucky; on this particular Wednesday he is even luckier still. The air, always tasting sweeter, and cleaner, and crisper after any brush with death, flows heavy and quick through his lungs as he stumbles out of the van and onto dusty earth. Hannibal, sliding out of the side door with chapped lips already wrapped around a cigar, is smirking like a cat with a mouse, eyes lit up like a jack o' lantern. Face looks a little worse for wear, but not as bad as his suit, and despite his irate grimace, Murdock knows the conman will recall this moment fondly, if he chooses to recall it at all.

B.A.—beautiful, _beautiful_ B.A.—is beaming, gold chains glistening with sweat and lying like regalia on his collarbone. His driving was spectacular (_as always_), and his van is in one piece, therefore his mood is nothing if not exuberant. He strides around the front of the car, teeth gleaming bright white against charcoal skin, and throws a heavy arm over Murdock's shoulders.

"You did good, fool," he congratulates, giving the pilot a firm shake, "We did real good."

He follows this announcement with a wild, almost child-like victory whoop, throwing his unencumbered fist up to the sky in a fierce thrust. Murdock's joy is eternal and exultant, and he looks up at B.A. from under the brim of his baseball cap.

"Hey B.A.," he grins, so stupidly wide it hurts his cheekbones. He's got a pickup line primed and ready, sinuous snark twitching on the tip of his tongue, when B.A. looks down at him.

The shadows in his eyes, those sharp, unforgiving shades that have guarded B.A.'s inner dialogue since he and Murdock met, are gone. Crows feet crinkle up softly at the edges of his eyelashes, warmth glows bright and bubbly in earth hued irises—there are no curtains hiding the spirited affection in B.A.'s face, and Murdock, for one life-altering moment, is lost for words.

"Um," he falters, brain moving at light-speed; B.A. continues to stare at him, not unkindly, but expectantly—

You're so sweet, I forgot my pickup line."

For almost four seconds, Murdock thinks he's said the wrong thing. The recent aftermath of his sentence is filled solely by B.A.'s languid blinking, but the sergeant's smile does not diminish, it broadens, and he tightens his grip on Murdock's angular shoulders

"Thanks, Murdock," he says, with the utmost sincerity, and Murdock melts, slipping his arm around B.A.'s waist and tapping out his 'you're welcome' with the pads of his fingers.

It's the very last pickup line he uses. Of course.


End file.
